Hello! Thanks for reading my first story. If you like please leave a review/follow. Chapter 2 is coming soon. Disclaimer: I don't own 'Sherlock' all rights belong to the BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle.

Chapter One

The deep lines etched into Lestrade's forehead were the first indication that something was very interesting about this crime scene. And it was about time too, London had been as silent as a morgue for weeks, months even. And it had nothing to do with John's engagement. Sherlock was sure of that. Absolutely sure.

"Through here," Lestrade said, making his way into the flat. It was run-down to say the least, situated in one of those areas that you wouldn't want to find yourself in after dark. Pale green paint peeled away from the splintered door frame. It looked like it had been kicked in. Hard.

"Freak," Donovan said, although there wasn't as much venom behind it as usual. Sherlock shifted his eyes from the battered door to meet her stare. Odd, she looked half-hesitant, as if she was weighing him up and finding something missing.

"Where's the other one?" She asked, glancing over Sherlock's shoulder, as if John would materialise behind him, back straight, eyes sparkling with the thrill of the game. Only, he wasn't going to do that. He was at that house with that woman. Not that Sherlock cared. Not one bit.

"Busy," Sherlock bit out, following Lestrade into the flat before Donovan could get another word in. He didn't need a cross-examination. Not when there was a case, a distraction.

"This one," Lestrade said, standing awkwardly in the corridor. Sherlock couldn't see past his large frame. He was waking up now, body thrumming with trapped energy.

"What?" He asked impatiently, trying and failing to get a look over Lestrade's shoulder.

The inspector's shoulders dropped, and he met Sherlock's incredulous glance, pleading.

"Sherlock, before you go in there's a few things you need to know—"

Sherlock didn't listen. He just scoffed and went to move forwards, past Lestrade and into the crime scene that he had been waiting for. Couldn't they see that he needed this. God, he needed this. Lestrade blocked his way.

"Sherlock. There's a kid in there."

That seemed to trigger something, at least momentarily. But as fast as it had come it was gone. The detective's eyes were cold again.

"I've worked cases of that nature before. Nothing new under the sun," he said, feeling something resembling guilt bloom in his stomach. It was quickly squashed down.

Lestrade looked at him hard. Eyes cold.

Bit not good, Sherlock.

"Right. Well this one's alive, so try not to traumatise her further."

Sherlock didn't reply. Lestrade didn't give him the time to, he simply turned his back and opened the door to the sitting room. It was cold. Unusually cold. And the room was eerily empty, with a lone, red armchair facing the window. It looked as if the flat had been unoccupied for months. But clearly that wasn't correct. The occupant was right there, plain to see. She was a young woman, late-twenties at most, posed in the armchair. Stiff as a board. Oh, and half of her face was missing. Bashed in with something heavy, until the skull was practically concave. But there was no blood. Not a drop.

"Rigor mortis has set in. Dead for forty-eight hours at least we - well, I – I estimate," Anderson supplied, as if Sherlock hadn't already figured it out.

Why did the entirety of Scotland Yard feel the need to tread on eggshells around him?

Obvious, isn't it? A mocking voice crept into Sherlock's mind, sounding suspiciously like Mycroft.

"Piss off," Sherlock muttered back, busying himself by inspecting the victim's fingernails.

"Just trying to help," Anderson snapped back, stomping out of the room.

Lestrade gave an exasperated sigh which Sherlock considered to be quite unfair. It wasn't as if he enjoyed these little unsolicited chats. Sherlock cursed Mycroft in his head. He hadn't spoken to his brother in months. Not after… He wasn't going to start now. No, now was about the case. And it was an interesting one.

"No obvious cause of death," Sherlock started, focusing solely on the body in front of him. "Young mother. Unmarried. Unemployed. Body is clearly posed, but to what effect? Why go to the trouble of it?"

"Of murder?" Lestrade asked, joining Sherlock beside the armchair.

"No. Anyone can do that. But to clean up the wound and move the body? Why bother?"

"Too much spare time?" Lestrade shrugged.

"Spectacle. Someone wants our attention," Sherlock replied, going to take a soil sample from the victim's boots. Of course, they were new. Useless.

"Well, they certainly got it. You want to speak to the kid?" Lestrade asked, motioning for the forensic pathologists to move in and remove the body.

Sherlock let his eyes linger on the woman's caved in skull as he replied. "I'm sure the Yard will be infinitely more skilled in that department than I am."

He wasn't even sure why he had said it. It was almost certainly true but a single, potential witness had intrigued Sherlock in the first place. Even if it was a child. So why did he feel oddly nervous now? Why did he have the overwhelming urge to return to his empty flat and stay holed up there forever?

One word, Sherlock. One name. The only name that counts.

"Sherlock," Lestrade started, even after Sherlock had started knotting his scarf around his neck.

He was always better with these pedestrian subjects than you were, brother mine. Children, that is. In fact, with a marriage in the near future, who is to say that there won't be-

"I'll text once it's solved. Give me a few hours," Sherlock carried on blindly, oblivious to the knot growing between Lestrade's brows.

Balance of probability, little brother.

"Sherlock." He said, loud enough to stop the detective in his tracks. "She hasn't spoken to a single detective since we arrived. She's only said one thing, over and over."

"Children are irritating beings. Give it a few years, I hear these things sort themselves out," he replied, letting a counterfeit smile colour his face.

"Asking, really. She's been asking a question."

Sherlock sighed impatiently. Bored. How was the crime scene he had been waiting on for months be boring him? God, the world was unusually cruel as of late.

"She's been asking for you."